


Blackout

by spideywriting (catch_you_later)



Series: whumptober 2019 [13]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Broken Voice, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Has Panic Attacks, Trembling, Whumptober, altno.2, do not copy to another site, no.20, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 19:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21105056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catch_you_later/pseuds/spideywriting
Summary: It’s dumb. He knows it’s dumb. It’s just an exam. A stupid AP Physics exam.





	Blackout

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed

It’s dumb. He knows it’s dumb. It’s just an exam. A stupid AP Physics exam. He shouldn't be panicking like this.

He knows this stuff. He _knows_ it.

But his mind screams blank.

He stares at the clock, then at the paper.

Clock.

Paper.

Teacher.

Wall.

Window.

Paper.

He stares at it, at the questions, until nothing makes sense and the letters start mixing together and dancing over the edges.

He shuts his eyes and pinches his nose. Tries to empty his mind_. _

_Calm down_.

_Think about May. _

_She’s going to be so disappoint—_

_Okay, no, don’t think about May._

He takes a shuddering, centering breath and thinks about Tony instead. They had had so much fun last time at the lab. He had had a few suggestions even Tony hadn’t thought about, and the warm, giddy feeling that had filled his chest after his mentor's proud approval had lingered on for days afterwards.

_I wonder what he’s going to say if I fail a physics—_

_No._

He stares blankly, expressionlessly down at his test, panic brewing strongly inside. His stomach rolls uncomfortably. His palms start sweating. The walls are closing in and the air feels both ice cold and sweltering. The scratching of the others’ pens only serves to remind him how his paper is utterly empty. Void of answers, just like his brain.

His knee starts bouncing up and down.

He can’t even discern the relevant terms from verbs and interrogatives. Question marks pop out from the page and fill his vision mockingly until they’re all he can see.

He scrunches his eyes shut again.

Time both snails forward and rushes past.

It’s ten minutes till the exam ends and suddenly he _remembers_ and then he’s writing feverishly, hands grasping the pen so hard that his knuckles turn white. First question, second, third, fourth – Peter pens as short and concise answers as he can, trying to cover as many as he can within the time limit.

At some point, his hand starts cramping, but he soldiers on, his jaw locked in tightly and shoulders tense, hunched deeply over his test paper. For eight minutes, there’s nothing else in the world except writing.

Mrs. Warren calls out, “2 minutes,” and Peter’s world pinpoints onto the next question, his writing getting more and more out of hand, letters smudging and sprawling nearly illegibly over the answer sheet.

Dimly, he’s aware that others are returning their answers, gathering their supplies and leaving the classroom until it’s just him and the teacher.

There’s a hint of regretful reluctance, when Mrs. Warren says, “The exam time is over. You can finish the sentence you were writing, but then you must hand it in or I need to dock some points for overtime.”

Peter nods, and concentrates on crafting out the best possible phrasing for the last sentence before he hands the paper to Mrs. Warren. She smiles at him and accepts the paper. He walks away on shaky legs, hands trembling from the aftermath of the adrenaline rush.

Somehow he manages to gather his stuff and exit the class room.

Then he’s outside and the walls are wobbling.

Ned is coming towards him and—

“Peter! Peter are you okay?!”

His friend takes a firm hold of his arms and it’s not until then that he realizes _he’s_ the one quaking. And he means actual _quaking_, as in uncontrollable full-body muscle spasms so strong that his teeth clack together and his eyesight blurs from the force of them. Or maybe he’s crying? He’s not sure.

There are only two things he knows for sure.

One, all of this is just the panic from the exam unraveling, adrenocorticotropic hormone, epinephrine, norepinephrine and cortisol flushing themselves through of his system one last time before dispersing.

Two, this is the worst delayed stress reaction he has ever gotten. Worse than even that one time when he very nearly got a bullet to the brain on a patrol and later hyperventilated over how close he had been to dying. It’s strange how his body categorizes an exam as a worse threat than literal mortal danger.

Neither of these tidbits are helpful in calming him down.

The quakes are starting to hurt and his teeth ache from the clacking. His breath comes in shorter and shorter bursts, his vision darkening ominously.

Ned tightens his grip on Peter’s arms, and some of his babble breaks through the hazy wall of panic.

“Peter! Peter, I don’t really know how to do this, but I read this thing online—anyway, it’s not important, just tell me five things that you can see! Peter? If you can hear me, tell me five things. What do you see?”

His eyes are still blurry.

“I – I can’t, I can’t—”

“It’s okay! Then tell me four things you can feel! Or touch, either one is fine!”

The question is so unexpected that he takes a moment to process it.

“Jeans.............the floor........your hands...um, the wall? And....my hoodie.”

Suddenly he feels every fiber of his dark washed jeans and soft, worn hoodie pressing against his skin in great detail. The floor and wall are too hard and cold, and Ned’s arms a very warm in contrast.

“Great, that’s great, now what do hear?

His breath stops as he concentrates.

“Heartbeats. Many, many heartbeats and footsteps and breathing and blood rushing and—”

His breathing speeds up again.

“Okay, moving on!” Ned cuts in, “Tell me two things you can smell and only two! And only the most prominent ones.”

He takes a deep breath through his nose.

“An energy drink. A mix of perfumes or deodorants.”

“Good. Now tell me one thing you can taste.” Ned sounds calmer, relieved.

“Umm, orange, I think?” He had eaten one for breakfast and the tangy aftertaste still lingered in his mouth.

His breathing has calmed down to normal levels. Relishing in the unrestricted expansion of his lungs, he takes a moment to breathe deeply.

Then he opens his eyes (he didn’t remember closing them, but they were very tightly crunched shut) and blinks as Ned’s gently smiling face came into focus. His mouth lifts up in a small, grateful smile in response.

“…thanks.”

His voice breaks a little under the weight of his gratitude. Ned just smiles wider.

“No problem, man. This is what best friends are for.”

**Author's Note:**

> FYI, he still scores an A+ from the exam. Because he's an awesome genius.
> 
> If you liked this, please drop a kudo/comment for me, I would really appreciate it!


End file.
